by Hilary McKay
Also he had the strangest feeling of being watched. So strange, and so strong, that for at least a minute he sat motionless, his eyes fixed on his phone screen, his nerves flickering with unease.
When he looked up at last, there was a face at the window.
A pale, still face pressed against the glass, eyes half veiled in darkness, breath misting in the cold night.
There, and then gone.
Upstairs, Louis sang on, a thin, eerie drone, but Max, who had frozen in shock, now sprang into panicking action, ran to the front door, fixed the safety chain, shoved across the never-used bolts, top and bottom, and then turned back to the kitchen to do the same there, knocking down his bike on the way.
‘Aaaah!’ he gasped as a pedal hit his shin, then shoved it aside and hobbled to the back door. There were no bolts on this one, nothing to hold it except the lock, but he grabbed the table (spilling the salad) and managed to wedge it with that.
‘Max! Max!’ cried Louis in the doorway.
‘’S’all right,’ panted Max, checking the window lock and pulling down the blind. ‘’S’all right, don’t worry! Let me past – Is your bedroom window open?’
He raced upstairs without waiting for an answer, and Louis ran after him, protesting, ‘I tidied! I tidied! Don’t mess it all up!’
‘There!’ said Max, slamming shut the window, closing the curtains against the dark, and scattering all Louis’ neat row of star-shaped cat biscuits, lined up like an offering on the windowsill. ‘Oh God, what’s that?’
There was someone at the door, hammering hard with the heavy iron door knocker.
Max grabbed Louis and held him tight. ‘Don’t make a sound!’ he ordered. ‘There’s someone weird out there. I saw them at the window.’
Louis stared at him, his eyes beseeching and full of questions.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump, pounded the knocker at the door.
‘You stay here,’ ordered Max. ‘I’ve got to leave you. I’m going down with my phone.’
Louis’ mouth wobbled and wobbled, but he made no sound.
‘It’ll be OK. The door’s bolted and the chain’s on . . . I need to find a signal, though. I’m going to ring the police.’
Huge tears began to pour down Louis’ cheeks. ‘I want Mum!’ he wailed, running to the window. ‘I want Theo! I want Abi ’n’ Esmé! When’re they coming?’
At exactly that moment the thumping paused and from down in the street a voice called, ‘Louis, where’s Max?’
‘Abi!’ shrieked Louis, then skidded down the stairs, dodged Max’s fallen bike and began tugging at the front door handle.
Then Max knew what a fool he’d been.
He had to help Louis with the bolts, and then he had to move the kitchen table so it was a table again, instead of a barricade. Miserably he fumbled to rearrange the lettuce and watercress, found the bread on the floor and picked it up.
‘I just thought beans would be nice!’ he heard Abi say, sounding completely bewildered, but he couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t look at anyone, so he concentrated on opening the oven and lifting out the macaroni cheese. He only knew his hands were shaking when a voice behind him asked, ‘Maaax?’
Max jumped and spun around, his oven mitt slipped, and bubbling hot macaroni cheese in a blue glazed dish dropped and smashed and splattered at Esmé’s feet.
Esmé gasped and Abi shrieked and Louis started crying again.
Max stood transfixed amidst the shrieking and the broken china and macaroni (smelling more wonderful than ever, unattainably wonderful) for what felt like hours. Hours and hours, struck speechless, with Esmé there in front of him.
‘Staring,’ said Abi afterwards.
‘I didn’t mean to stare.’
‘And not saying a word.’
‘I couldn’t think.’
‘And then you ran away. We only went to the shop to buy beans. We forgot to take a key. Esmé took one tiny look through the rocking-horse-room window and . . .’
‘Oh shut up.’
‘. . . you barricaded the house and terrified Louis and dropped the macaroni cheese and ran away!’
It was true. Max had bolted, out into the windy street, past the noodle shop and the little grocery. He had run and run, far into the evening.
He had run all the way to Danny’s house, to Danny’s closed door, and there he had stopped. There, too, Theo had appeared like a miracle on his bike in front of him, and had braked and shouted, ‘Max!’
Theo got off his bike and walked quietly beside him until Max could manage to look at him and speak, and after that they went back together, phoning ahead to say they were on the way. When they arrived, they found the kitchen tidy and only the faintest smell of cheese in the air. Theo went out and bought wonderful noodles and made them all use chopsticks, and Esmé could do it best, and Abi nearly as well, and Louis put his face right down in his supper and got noodles in his hair.
It became a sort of party.
Max ate noodles and juggled chopsticks and pretended he was at the party too, but he wasn’t. In his head he was still struck speechless, with Esmé in front of him. Esmé, seen at last: swinging dark hair, scooped-neck black T-shirt showing bright pink bra straps, tight black jeans, and silver ballet shoes splattered all over with macaroni cheese.
All night it was the same. Long after Esmé had gone home, sent in a minicab by kind, tired Theo, and Abi was asleep, and Louis was asleep, and Iffen, stretched out beside Louis was asleep, and even the wind was sleeping too, not an ivy leaf moving, Max lay wide awake, staring out into the dark.
All he could think of was pinkness and blackness and silver shoes and the way she had said his name, slow and questioning: ‘Maaax?’
He didn’t know if it was the best night of his life or the worst; it was impossible to tell.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Since Polly went away no one had told Louis to change his pyjamas, so he hadn’t. Very early on Saturday morning he came uninvited to Abi’s room and sat on Abi’s bed in them. Every breakfast he had eaten since Polly left was recorded on the front, he’d used the sleeves as handkerchiefs, and the night before had stored rescued macaroni cheese in the pockets.
‘Go away,’ said Abi, outraged.
Louis looked very surprised and asked, ‘Why?’
‘I don’t want visitors, that’s why.’
‘I thought you might want to see my best thing?’
‘No thank you.’
‘You don’t know what it is yet. Wait, look! I can put both my big toes in my mouth at once.’
‘DON’T!’ said Abi, but he did it anyway and then asked, rather muffled, ‘Isn’t that good?’
‘It’s completely gross,’ said Abi.
‘Oh,’ said Louis, disappointed, and then, after a moment or two, ‘Mum said it was brilliant when I did it for her.’
‘She only said that because she’s your mother.’
‘Your mum’s dead, isn’t she? Poor Abi.’
‘Shut up and mind your own business.’
‘My dad sodded off,’ said Louis with satisfaction.
Despite herself, Abi had to fight down a splutter of laughter.
‘That’s what Mum said,’ continued Louis. ‘Sodded off because he couldn’t hack it. I’m not supposed to say it, though. Anyway, it’s good because now I’ve got Theo instead. And you’re my sister.’
‘I am not your sister and don’t you dare put your disgusting spitty feet on my quilt.’
‘All right,’ said Louis, and rubbed them on Abi’s bedside rug instead.
‘You are truly disgusting,’ said Abi severely, ‘and you should put those horrible pyjamas in the washing basket.’
‘What, now?’
‘YES NOW!’ said Abi.
Louis slid off the bed and disappeared, but came back much too quickly.
‘I’ve done it,’ he said cheerfully.
‘Get out!’ screeched Abi, and Louis’ happy face contorted and she heard him run down the stairs and d
ive through his bedroom door and begin singing, ‘Iffen, iffen, iffen . . .’ with a sort of squeaky urgency that filled her with dismay.
Abi rolled over in bed and hid her face under her pillow. Louis. His pyjamas. His wet toes. And, Your mum’s dead, isn’t she? and, Now I’ve got Theo.
Not to mention, And you’re my sister.
But the obliging way he had hurried to the washing basket.
And returned; pink, pleased . . .
Abi, still beneath the pillow, sighed because she had thought when they moved things would become all right, and they hadn’t, and lately she couldn’t even read to escape any more. Lately, she had become wary of books.
Which was ridiculous.
And unbelievable.
Mad.
Had anyone, ever, drowned in a book?
Or toppled over a cliff in a wobbly bus?
Or in any way damaged themselves from a reading-related accident?
Abi knew who would know.
She found Theo in the rocking-horse room, walking around with his hands behind his neck and his nose in the air.
‘You’ve started doing Polly’s yoga,’ Abi said, slightly accusingly.
‘Wrong, but I might,’ said Theo. ‘I’m trying to get my head round this ceiling. I’d be in dead trouble if I knocked a bit off.’
‘A bit off your head?’
‘No, no. Well, yes, that too. Now then, it’s only just seven on a Saturday morning. What gets you up and down so early?’
‘Books,’ said Abi. ‘I wanted to ask you something about books.’
‘Hmm?’ asked Theo, doing some stretches against the panelling (which he was gradually polishing, square by square in every odd moment he had).
‘At the hospital,’ said Abi, ‘do people ever come in because of books?’
‘They’d be disappointed if they did,’ said Theo. ‘We’re a bloodbath-and-counselling service, not a library. We’ve got a few kids’ picture books and Willy-the-Mop keeps a stack of papers for the drunks to sit on, but that’s about it. Don’t roll your eyes!’
‘Yes, but do people ever come in because they’ve had accidents with books?’
‘Ah,’ said Theo, stopping his stretches and lowering himself down against the wall to sit in a proper listening position. ‘Right, got you! Yes. Yes they do. Books are dangerous things. Bookcases fall on people all the time. Dopes drop them on their toes and come in hopping. Nutters read them walking down the street and collide with lamp posts. Babies eat them. And there are many, many accounts of people being shut in libraries after closing time. They generally get injured breaking their way out.’
‘But,’ said Abi, more patiently because she was sitting beside him now, and his shoulder was nice and warm, ‘what about accidents from reading books. Actually reading them. From the reading. Not lamp posts and things.’
‘Less common, but possibly even more dangerous,’ said Theo, giving her an enthusiastic hug. ‘There’s reading by candlelight when you fall asleep and catch fire. Reading while cooking; cookery books cause a lot of knife-related injuries!’
‘What?’
‘Oh yes! Chopping parsley while you check what you’ve got to do next? Whoops! Recipe for disaster! And, of course, there’s all the folk that get struck by lightning reading under a tree in a thunderstorm. Not to mention the kids who come with everything from splinters to concussion from trying to get through the backs of wardrobes. And don’t get me started on Harry Potter and whiplash. You would not believe the number of people running luggage trolleys into brick walls!’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘Sitting on broomsticks and launching themselves out of bedroom windows! Bothering dragons!’
‘Stop it!’ said Abi.
‘What?’
‘Being silly.’
‘Me?’ asked Theo, in a very high voice with his eyebrows raised. It was Saturday morning and he had two whole days ahead away from the hospital, which hadn’t happened for weeks. He couldn’t help being silly.
Abi said, ‘I just want to know, if you believe in . . . in . . .’ She paused. ‘Not magic . . .’ She paused again.
‘Not magic?’
‘No.’
‘Go on.’
‘If someone was reading a book about a bus, it would be impossible for them to be on the bus, wouldn’t it?’
‘I’m keeping up, Abi, I think.’
‘Or if it was about the sea and then, while they were reading, they fell. Or slipped, into the sea.’
‘Are we still on the bus?’ interrupted Theo.
‘No. We’re in here. This room. In this house.’
‘You still like the house?’ asked Theo a little anxiously, and he looked around at the bare old-fashioned room, with the empty fireplace, and the ivy-leaf shapes at the window and he remembered Polly’s thoughts of eeriness.
‘It’s like a house in a book,’ said Abi, and reached out a hand to touch the carved panelling. ‘You’re not listening properly. I was talking about the sea. Reading about the sea and then falling into the sea . . .’
‘Reading about the sea and then falling into the sea?’ repeated Theo.
‘Yes.’
‘The actual wet stuff?’
‘Not right in,’ said Abi, and became quiet, baffled by the impossibility of explaining. Theo, however, looked thoughtful, and then very pleased and exclaimed, ‘I know what! We’ll go!’
‘Go where?’
‘Pop across to Southend or somewhere!’
‘Do you mean to the real sea?’
‘Why not?’
‘Just me and you?’
‘Abi! Have a heart. Whole family needs a cheer-up if you ask me!’
‘Max never will,’ said Abi. ‘Not after last night. He’ll probably never come out of his room again.’
‘He ate his noodles.’
‘Dying inside.’
‘We’ve all been there,’ said Theo, not denying it. ‘Pancakes first and then we’ll see.’
Pancakes brought the boys downstairs, first Louis (dressed, Abi was thankful to see) and then Max, pale from his sleepless night. Theo immediately handed him the frying pan and the jug of batter, set Abi slicing oranges, Louis cupboard-hunting for chocolate spread, raspberry jam and squirty cream, and sat down himself to write a list.
‘Jackets,’ he said. ‘Hats, all that. Twopence pieces for the arcades, spare socks, a towel or two, bucket and spade we can buy there if we want them, what else do you take to the beach, Louis?’
Louis fell out of the cupboard in surprise.
‘The beach at the seaside?’
‘Lovely day for it,’ said Theo calmly. ‘Can you find a football, Max, do you think?’
‘Are you for real?’ asked Max.
‘Yep.’
‘Why?’
‘Got a day off,’ said Theo. ‘Day off, and the sun’s out. Where else?’
‘When?’
‘Driving over soon as you’re ready,’ said Theo.
And an hour or so later, they did, heading straight into the east wind and screaming seagulls and there they wore themselves into peace with ridged sand and bare feet in icy, lace-edged waves and later football, with Theo as the goalie and the sea for the goal. As they left, Abi picked up seashells, and when Louis noticed, he picked them up too, jubilant to find three yellow periwinkles and two halves of a cockleshell, still joined in the middle.
‘Abi can have the yellow ones,’ he said, showing them to Theo. ‘No! Abi can have them all. I’ll just have ordinary things in my other pocket. There!’
He organized his jacket busily, explaining, ‘I’ve made a first-best pocket for Abi and a second-best one that already has a little hole in for me.’
Later he found a large dead starfish.
‘Which pocket is that going in?’ teased Theo.
Louis emptied his first-best pocket shells into his hat, put his second-best pocket shells into his newly emptied first-best pocket, and put the starfish in his now vacant second-best pocke
t. Then he carried the hat proudly to Abi.
‘No, no!’ she protested, saw his eyes and changed her mind.
‘Thank you. They’re beautiful. Thank you,’ she said.
It was too cold for sandcastles, but the arcade was warm. Theo collected two pounds’ worth of twopence pieces and shared them out. Louis was the first to lose his money and Abi was the last. Twice she made a breathless fortune, and twice it was taken from her. Max changed fifty pence of his own, in order to show her how her timing was wrong, but in the end they all agreed that the machines were probably rigged.
‘Food,’ said Theo, when all was lost, and so they straggled back to the car with parcels of chips, and the wonderful smell of curry sauce floating behind them like a banner. A white highway cat ran out of a pub doorway and waylaid them under an early pink street lamp. They raced for the honour of giving it the first chip, blowing to cool them, charmed to hand over the best and crispiest. The cat reached up for them one by one with endearing white paws.
‘I wish it was a stray and we could take it home,’ said Abi.
‘I think it is home,’ said Theo.
Louis shifted his starfish in his pocket and thought of Iffen. Would Iffen like a white cat friend? Was Iffen ever lonely?’ He has me, thought Louis. I have Iffen; he has me. So it’s fair.
Theo was right. The white cat was home. When the chips were finished, it wound briefly round their legs, crossed to a birch tree, cleaned its paws by raking the bark with extended needle-sharp claws, glanced over its shoulder as if in farewell and sauntered away. They felt suddenly alone and cold.
‘We should be on our way too,’ said Theo, and no one disagreed.
On the journey home the boys fell asleep, Max in the front with the road atlas on his knees. Louis in the back, tipping slowly sideways on to Abi until his head rested against her sandy, damp jeans. He was dreaming. Once he reached out a hand, said, ‘Mum,’ quite clearly, opened his eyes and found Abi instead. ‘Sorry-is-it-all-right?’ he murmured, and Abi said, ‘Yes, it’s fine.’
